


now it's a different game

by Andromaca



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki AU, M/M, Some flower language, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromaca/pseuds/Andromaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The petals lie scattered around his feet covering part of his training shoes by the time he has his inhaler back in his hand and stops coughing. Yellow carnations today, it seems.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	now it's a different game

**Author's Note:**

> in this fic, ushijima is terminally ill, and there are mentions of throwing up, so if you are uncomfortable with that, i would recommend not reading this (although the throwing up mentions are really light). however, the major character death tag is not there for a reason.  
> hanahaki is a fictional illness caused by unrequited love which makes you flowers bloom in ur lungs and spit out flower petals. i had no idea if it is a terminal illness or not, but its fake anyway, so i twisted it to my liking  
> i put a lot of effort in this! kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, but i would be happy with you all just liking my work!

The way Ushijima admires Oikawa can not be described as anything other than pure and unadulterated love, how he is prone to always speak good of him despite the insufferableness of the other party in his regards suggesting he, in fact, does more than praise him for his volleyball worth. Despite it being clear that he adores his skill and his talent above all, he isn’t exactly the least obvious person in the world, the way his eyes light up when Oikawa shakes his hand before a match giving away everything he isn’t willing to speak about.

He, certainly, isn’t one to be open about his feelings; he never once mentioned his crush to anyone, although, because of his illness, he finds it hard to believe no one knew of it. Of course, the petals he sometimes forgets to clean from the club room floor don’t sport Oikawa’s name, and of course he is always careful to never allow himself any slip-ups, but still. Though, if his teammates talking in hushed voices while helping him clean the rainbow-y mess he made from time to time is anything to go by, Ushijima would say they had already figured him out.

“You still have time to transfer to Shiratorizawa, Oikawa.” It’s said like a plead, because it is.

“Absolutely not, Ushiwaka-chan,” a cough fit, “You piss me off,” another one, “Get out of my sight” and by the time this sentence rolls around Oikawa’s tongue, Ushijima is in dire need of his inhaler, left long-forgotten by his bag in the club room. His chest aches with the pain of rejection, and it isn’t, sadly, the first time Ushijima has known this feeling. He knows he should get a grip on himself before he chokes to death trying to swallow his feelings along what’s clogging the back of his throat, but he can’t, not when he can’t shake off the memory of Oikawa’s harsh tone.

“Are you okay, Ushijima-san?”

He cannot manage to give a proper answer as he stutters on the familiar feeling of his throat constricting around itself, and he can only reply by spitting flower petals on the hard concrete outside the Shiratorizawa gym.

The petals lie scattered around his feet covering part of his training shoes by the time he has his inhaler back in his hand and stops coughing. Yellow carnations today, it seems. He feels weak, because he is. He has completely succumbed to his illness: although it easily cured, he doesn’t want to get rid of it. He sees the flowers as a part of him by now, they aren’t so much of a grim reminder of his situation as much as a way to somehow make it better, prettier. He can relate to the crushed plants in some kind of twisted way, he thinks bitterly.

—

When it’s summer, Ushijima is still his same old self. His old self, who spends from one to three nights per week awake throwing up entire bouquets of brightly coloured flowers, late at night, quietly because he fears his relatives discovering him crouched in such an unbecoming position against the toilet. Ushijima doesn’t want them to know about this secret of his.

When it’s summer, he bashes in the heat while on his morning run, because worrying about not fainting in the middle of Miyagi, where he doesn’t have a concept of his surroundings, is better than worrying about not fainting because he forgot his inhaler somewhere without reach.

When it’s summer, he thinks it’s better when Oikawa confronts him and teases him about things out of his reach, because it’s still better than occasionally spitting out a withered petal or two to the memory of past events. He knows Oikawa’s birthday will be soon, but Ushijima also knows his presence there would most likely be a bore to him, if at all welcome. He isn’t sure Oikawa would allow him to enter his house, anyway, and it stings but it also makes him giddy — it’s cute, he thinks, how Oikawa holds grudges like this. It’s scary, in a way, but childish to the point Ushijima finds himself smiling when thinking about it more often than not, when he’s watering his plants and is allowed to let his mind wander and to think of the reasons he likes Oikawa for, he is allowed to think of his slender fingers coming close together in what is a toss for him in what would be an alternate universe, because his blush is hidden to the public eye by the high sunflowers in his garden.

When it’s summer, Ushijima thinks that even if Oikawa is nothing short of a 5 year old trapped in a 17 year old body, it is his duty to be a good neighbour and playing stupid and pretending to forget Oikawa’s birthday is not decent mannerism, thus not how his parents grew him. He sighs, and he doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that he already knows what to get him.

—

Ushijima walks towards Oikawa’s house, and he stops and thinks that maybe, now that he is about 10 feet from it, it isn’t too late to go and get him something more befitting for someone like him. For example, he ponders, maybe he would like a gift card from the sports store better, or maybe he would prefer a simple slice of cake. Ushijima isn’t so sure of himself when he steps in front of the door and knocks on it. Perhaps, but just perhaps, he realises as he hears footsteps on the inside, now it’s too late to change his mind.

He cannot expect Oikawa not to be annoyed when he sees him standing there, and he does not. Of course, the hopeless romantic part of him (which amounted, according to a rough estimation, to a grand total of 0,1% of Ushijima’s whole being) wished he had Oikawa swooning at his feet begging for his hand to be held, but it’s not so bad when instead it’s a sleepy Oikawa who greets him while scratching his stomach.

“Ushiwaka-chan, it’s fucking eight in the morning.”

Ushijima blushes. “I thought I should bring you something to celebrate.” He half expects to be invited in, but it’s foolish and he knows it. “Happy birthday, Oikawa. I grew these myself.” He hands him the bouquet of forget-me-nots, and he feels like a child.

Oikawa is visibly unsettled by the gift, and Ushijima has no idea whether it’s because he has just woken up or because he genuinely likes them but it’s his long time rival handing them over. The answer comes when Oikawa tries to stifle a yawn, and looks at the flowers in his hands. “I figured you’d always liked blue the best.” It’s petty of him, but he cannot help it.

When Oikawa doesn’t speak, Ushijima hands him an envelope to go with the flowers and makes to leave. He has no time to waste if Oikawa is going to keep him occupied by silently scrutinising him while he stands uncomfortably on the threshold.

Ushijima is about five meters on his way home when he hears Oikawa shout a “I don’t need your stupid gift, Ushiwaka!” after him and slam his door. He doesn’t fail to notice how he keeps it, thought.

—

Oikawa, lying on his bed, eyes the envelope lying in the trash can with desire, and it’s more of a need than a want, and thinks that no one needs to know if he opens it, reads it, and then returns it to the trash that is its rightful place. He is dying to know what Ushijima’s bird brain came up with this time. He would laugh if it was any variation of the sentence “Come to Shiratorizawa”, because he would make the best out of this and the best he can make of Ushijima insulting all the hard work he and his team had undergone is turning it into a punchline. It’s not funny in the conventional way, because as soon as he looks into it a little he feels the bitterness come up and invade his mouth all over again, turning him insufferable for about a week, but if he ignores it then it’s fine. And it’s fine if he laughs at it now, when he opens the envelope and finds it written in fancy handwriting on a piece of fancy paper, with Ushijima’s signature in the bottom right of it.

But he is surprised when he retrieves it from the bin and inside there is a letter which does not begin with “Dearest Oikawa, here is a list of reasons you should play with my team instead of the hellish, untalented cesspit you’re stuck with at Aoba Johsai.”

Well, maybe not really surprised, because through all his teasing, he has Ushijima figured out and he knows he wouldn’t begin a letter like this, because he knows he doesn’t have it in him to be funny, even when he doesn’t mean to be. And suddenly he doesn’t feel like reading it anymore, because he feels sick to the stomach thinking about what might be written on it, and he isn’t sure he wants to find out anymore. He disregards it as Ushijima bullshit, and leaves it on his desk to rot.

—

On the night of July 20th, Ushijima throws up a whole withered flower and he thinks that it was about time his illness took a turn for the worst. He has lived with it for about three years after all, he thinks, and is grateful he is, at least, still alive now. He estimates he won’t last long now, and will consider himself lucky if he makes it to his birthday, although he would much rather not live through any more suffering. He thinks that going off in a tranquil way would be best, but he’ll take what he gets. He is not the one in the place to decide how he will go.

He doesn’t think he lived a bad life — he ponders the same night, lying on his bed and facing the ceiling. He looks back on his accomplishments, and his glance turns to his trophies and the few pictures of him and his friends or family hung around his room, and thinks that with all the good things he had in life, he has the guts to wish for something more. He condemns his greed, but is not eager to talk to his relatives about his illness and his choices about it yet, because they would suggest, or force perhaps, the operation. He, as he is almost 18 years old by now, is allowed to make his life choices, and with those, his death choices too: he wants to die loving, because he does not see himself the same way without the sentiment. He realises it’s foolish, but he stands for his cause. Love, in itself, won’t be what kills him, but rather it’s the stupidity of man that will.

Ushijima wonders when he got so deep, and lets out a sigh. A part of him wishes Oikawa would love him back already, because he isn’t exactly fond of the idea of being about to die every other day, but he will endure another rejection with pride, because that is what he prides himself on doing best, apart from spiking volley balls with all his might and winning over whatever opponents. He thinks that Oikawa is not an opponent he will ever defeat, though, for as many times he will beat him court, he will find a way to disregard his feelings and that feels almost as bad as a ball scoring a point on his side of the net does.

He turns in his bed, and kicks the blanket because it’s too hot and even though it’s already pooled at his feet, it still bothers him.

He doesn’t want to die filled with regret, though, and he considers defining himself a normal person for that. His deadly sin of greed aside, he doesn’t think it’s rude of him to want to die only after feeling completely satisfied with his, however short, life. He does not think it’s bad or disrespectful of him to feel this way, but he also thinks realistically and he doesn’t see a way to please him once and for all that isn’t being loved back by Oikawa. He huffs out a laugh at the thought — it isn’t funny, but he pretends it is, because if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to endure the pain.

He turns around again, and as he eyes the bright red “04:06 A.M.” on his nightstand, he decides it’s better if he sleeps then. Because he shouldn’t waste his last days sleeping until noon.

—

Three days later, he jolts awake at the coughing fit catching him in his sleep, and makes a beeline the bathroom already stuffing two fingers down his throat before he wakes his mother up too, and when he takes his hand out of his mouth, a dead leaf rests in the palm of his hand, and he wonder if maybe it’s time he talks to his family and to his friends about his condition, before it’s too late and he doesn’t have a chance to bid them farewell — and to apologise.

He thinks of calling Tendou and the rest of the team over before telling his mother and his grandparents, because they will be the most difficult to deal with and he doesn’t feel like dealing with them now, not after he is already bitter about Oikawa not calling him to either accept or deny his invitation as requested in his letter. He thinks that calling his team over, maybe, isn’t a good idea, as he remembers that his mother is in the house, and so he sends a group text to them to please come outside of Shiratorizawa Academy for a team meeting, and asking them to please not skip it because it’s really important.

 _Of course it’s important_ , he thinks, _after all, their captain is dying_.

When, two hours later, everyone is seated in front of him, Ushijima isn’t sure what he wants to say anymore. Goshiki has already expressed his interest in knowing what called for a team meeting in the middle of summer vacation, but Ushijima hasn’t graced him with an actual answer yet.

He does not know if he is supposed to start with the beginning, with the end, or with what is happening right now. He can feel all his teammates looking at him weird, because he said it was urgent but now he stands there not talking, and maybe they think it was some sort of sham.

Ushijima Wakatoshi doesn’t play pranks.

“There is no easy way to say this,” he begins, and thinks that he might actually make it through this. He eyes the crowd, and bows. “I want to apologise in advance.”

Silence. Ushijima doesn’t straighten his back.

“I am dying. Soon, probably. I have not yet consulted a doctor about this, but, at this rate, my estimations say I will not make it to August.” He does not cry, because it’s not befitting of him to. “I deeply apologise, but I have no intention to be cured of this illness of mine. I sincerely hope our team will make it to the nationals this year too, even when I am not there to lead you. Of course, I wish you all can make the most of the time we have spent together and can only hope you won’t forget our victories together in a short time. I believe it is something we — you will all treasure forever. I am sorry.”

—

Ushijima rolls around in bed, and thinks that maybe, back in the day, he should have bought a lava lamp. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about it now, at about two in the morning, but he is.

He thinks of many things. He thinks, in first place, that he should have been a better person to his rivals; he sees, now, with the wisdom imminent death gifts him, why Oikawa despises him so much. He thinks that he was a, as a millennial would describe him, prick to him, and that he partly deserves it. He sees how he should have not disregarded Oikawa’s and his team’s efforts, for no one is invincible and victory isn’t guaranteed to a team more than it is to another one. He is defeated, now, and he thinks that while he now is tossing around in bed sulking about it, Oikawa has had it going on for years, and he feels a little guilty. He has never meant to be a cause for sorrow, but he realises now that he might have been one to Oikawa, what with his speeches about glory and victory if only he joined Shiratorizawa, and, consequently, his team, ignoring their feelings completely.

He thinks of texting Oikawa. He has never been one to prefer indirect confrontation, but he does not see how he could sneak out now, at three in the morning on a Monday, without being found out by his mother. He thinks that he should apologise now, because as far as he is concerned this might be his last time he can. But he feels sort of mortified of doing it via text, and plus he likes to think of himself prepared on when and how he will die, today he only spat two dead leaves after all, it can’t be today.

He goes to sleep with a heavy heart, and promising himself he should go and apologise for everything as soon as he wakes up.

—

When Ushijima wakes up from his peaceful slumber (which barely lasted three hours), he jumps up and rocks on the balls of his feet, stalling for time while looking out of the open window at the sun rising, and waving his hand at the grandma collecting her mail on the neighbouring lane. He thinks how disappointing it is to die at 17, before an old woman. He thinks it’s a bit mean of him to think it.

Nothing in his wardrobe seems fitting, and he sighs, before eyeing a kimono and huffing out a quiet laugh because he thinks, funny, life is really too short to worry about what to wear. He settles for normal, everyday clothes, though, because he will not give Oikawa any more excuses to make fun of him, and he will not go see him in a kimono out of the blue. He’d need a reason, and at least a fortnight notice before he would even consider doing such a thing.

As he steps out of the house and locks the door behind him, he thinks of picking up a flower for Oikawa, but he settles for a bouquet of filberts and Japanese camellias he buys at a nearby flower shop, because he can’t grow every damn flower in existence but he still wants those for this special occasion. That, and he didn’t study the language of flowers for his knowledge to be wasted, but Wakatoshi rationalises that Oikawa probably doesn’t know flower language, and he is wasting his time and money. Oh, well, he will live anyway.

This time, as he raps his knuckles on Oikawa’s front door, he doesn’t think of backing out or of running away. Instead, he thinks that it’s barely eight in the morning, but whereas Oikawa has all the time in the world to hate him, Ushijima doesn’t have but a few days left to live up to what he promised himself he would do. He knocks again for good measure when he doesn’t hear footsteps inside, and wonders if maybe Oikawa has spent the night at Iwaizumi’s. He doesn’t have time to worry, when he hears the pitter patter of little feet scurrying away towards the door.

“Hello,” he greets the child that opens the door, “Is Oikawa Tooru home?” he asks politely.

“Tooru!” the child yells, and runs away towards the stairs, “Come down! You have visits!”

A voice from upstairs yells a “Stop yelling” back, and Ushijima shuffles on his feet awkwardly because he isn’t sure if he should go in or just wait until someone properly invites him to. Ushijima glances at his wrist watch, and decides that he is not in a rush, that he can wait. Which, by no means, means that he is willing to wait for longer than necessary. He will leave if he has to.

Or, someone else will make him leave.

Oikawa Tooru, dressed (very much unflatteringly) in pyjamas again, as soon as he sees him waiting, slams the door in his face. Ushijima sighs, and knocks again. It doesn’t take long before he has to knock again, because he knows Oikawa is still there and although he said he would leave if he had to, he doesn’t want to. So the door opens again just a small fraction, and Oikawa’s eye peeks out, scrutinising Ushijima. “I have read your letter,” he says, and the eye closes, “I am not coming to your birthday party. Now go away.”

Ushijima sighs. He was never particularly good with kids. “I knew you would not come,” he does not care to deny the birthday party part, “So I came myself. Please, let me in. I have something to talk to you about.”

Oikawa seems hesitant, and his brow furrows. “Did you grow those, too?” he inquiries, “I don’t care about flowers, you know.”

Ushijima looks to the flowers he is holding, and then back to Oikawa. “No. I bought them. Now, please let me in. I have to talk with you.”

“No,” Oikawa says, and makes to close the door.

“Oikawa. I am terminally ill.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who has only ever known distaste in Oikawa’s eyes, finds himself surprised and in love all over again when they soften around the corners in surprise, and when his grip slips and the door slides open a fraction more. “Don’t joke.” He, in response, coughs a little until he is able to spit a few dead leaves, and when he looks up to Oikawa he just smiles.

—

As soon as Ushijima sits on Oikawa’s bed the uneasiness starts to kick in: he is sitting on Oikawa’s bed, Oikawa’s, his long time crush’s bed! It isn’t supposed to go like this — Oikawa is supposed to hate him forever, just like he has since they met, he isn’t supposed to invite Ushijima to sit on his bed while he makes tea (which is ironic, because if he wanted to drink leaves, he’d just spit out some into hot water — he realises it’s a gross thought).

Oikawa, on the other hand, is uncomfortable for other reasons — he doubts Ushijima would play this kind of pranks, so he assumes he is telling the truth, and it’s worse. All the times Oikawa wished Ushijima would just go to Hell already, he didn’t mean it like this — he’d meant it in a more “I hope he hurts his ankle and cannot play in the next game” kind of way. He has never ever wanted him to… die — of course, he had always thought his life would be better off without Ushijima, but not up to this point. So, instead of calmly making tea, he nervously makes tea, because he is afraid of finding out what is happening to him. Innate flare for being petty aside, Oikawa doesn’t think he could withstand actually telling Ushijima, hey, thanks for the flowers and I’m sorry you’re dying, but leave. He can’t, and doesn’t want to.

He places the cup in Ushijima’s hand. It doesn’t look any different from the times he looked at it from across the net after a successful spike. He thinks of holding it for comfort, but then Ushijima starts caressing his cup and thinks it’s better if he holds his, too, to sip tea as a distraction.

Ushijima is the first to speak. “Listen,” (Oikawa wants so badly to tease him as usual and say “I am listening,” back, but his gut instinct tells him to shut up, just this once) “I am terminally ill. I have an easily curable illness, but I myself have chosen not to cure it, because I feel like it would be worse living without it, than dying with it.” He exhales, and although Oikawa opens his mouth to speak, Ushijima starts talking again. “I do not think I have much time left. The reason I thought I should tell you before I told my mother and relatives, is because you are somehow related to it.

“In hope I will not make you uncomfortable, I will tell you things as how they stand as of now.

“Oikawa, I am ill of Hanahaki, a disease caused by unrequited love. Flowers bloom in my lungs, and I consequently spit them out of my mouth. It’s easy to eradicate the seeds, but without them, the patient is also ridden of the feelings that caused the illness in the first place.

“The reason I chose not to be operated, is because I thought my feelings are more important. I thought I would die loving, like I lived. Which is, because I lived loving you. I apologise in advance for any embarrassment, but I love you, Oikawa Tooru, and have for years. Of course, I don’t blame you — I would never, I brought this on myself, after all — and of course I did not come here today to ask you to love me back so I could be cured.

“I genuinely thought I should tell you this because I find it hard to sleep at night because of the regret. Whether it is because I regret not telling you sooner, or because I know now that I have treated you bad in the past, I fear I do not know — but I realise now that I was wrong all this time; victory is not certain, and I am sorry for having spoken mean words about you and your team because of my clouded vision. I thought that because of my talent in spiking, I would be the very best at everything, and that I would know better than anyone else.” — Ushijima laughs a little, breathless and mirthless.

“Ushiwaka… Ushijima. I never thought —“ Oikawa grips his cup harder, and looks down into it. Doesn’t seem like the tea leaves speak in his favour today. “I am so sorry. I — should have figured out. For all the times I wished you would get away from me, I never wished for you to die. Is there any way out of this? I will help you in any way I can —“

Ushijima closes his eyes, and smiles tenderly. “I could never ask you to do that. You would have to love your worst enemy back to do it, after all.”

“Teach me.”

Ushijima opens his eyes, and he is not smiling anymore. “Excuse me?”

“Teach me,” Oikawa repeats, and stands on his feet, to emphasise the concept, “Teach me how to love you, I’ll do it. Take me out on a date, kiss me in the back of the cinema when no one is looking, buy me flowers, I don’t know, take me to the candy shop — I have no idea, just teach me and I will do it.”

Ushijima is dumbfounded. He does not realise what Oikawa is asking him to do, he is more likely going to die now out of spontaneous combustion than ever of hanahaki.

Oikawa smirks down at him, and speaks again. “Of course I can’t stand neither you or your stupid face, but I can’t have you die yet, I haven’t even got a chance to kick your ass at the Spring High.”

Ushijima thinks that yes, love will be what kills him, after all.


End file.
